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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320690">Too Common</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artist_in_Space/pseuds/Artist_in_Space'>Artist_in_Space</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF John Watson, Childhood Memories, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Crack, Friendship/Love, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Kid Mycroft, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Soulmates, the endgame is... someone, this is going to be a thing apparently</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:54:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artist_in_Space/pseuds/Artist_in_Space</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Mycroft,” his father cocked his head to the side, musing at his five year old son. “Since Alexander will be shot down, may I call you Mike?”</p><p>It was simply unacceptable, because Mike was even more common than Alexander or Alex, and that was horrible all-around. The childish glare that crept onto his features brought out a chortle from his parents, of which he tried not to be so irritated about, but at least he wasn’t Alexander anymore. At least now, his only problem would be finding his own soulmate.</p><p>John.</p><p>What a terribly, annoyingly, common name.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes &amp; John Watson, Mycroft Holmes &amp; Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1: Unique</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was a dare and a joke and a crack fic rolled into one and somehow it's... growing. Oh well, I cannot believe I wrote for my crack ship FIRST before my real ship smh what's wrong with me</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>John Hamish Watson, M.D., RAMC.</em>
</p><p>Interested, yet unimpressed eyes looked up from the folder.</p><p>“This is the person who is associating with my brother?” There was an entire catalogue of details: quite the sharpshooter, mindful army surgeon, great at combat medicine, and has expressed to want to be a GP. Other than that, there was nothing else that should’ve taken his brother’s attention, for whatever reason he was letting the ex-army doctor to stay in his flat. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes, sir.” Anthea nodded, studiously texting on her phone. “Beneath those are the requested documents from the therapist.”</p><p>“Ah yes, the blog.” He sniffed at the <em>nothing ever happens to me, </em>suggested by the lousy therapist who had apparently diagnosed the man with post-traumatic stress disorder with trust issues, and with an even more incompetent doctor who had given the man pills for his limp. A quick glance at the video he had in his laptop was already evidence that it was decidedly not.</p><p>“Arrange a meeting with him, will you?” He asked, because even if he wasn’t intrigued, it was better to vet his brother’s choice of companionship. Someone who had followed him so loyally despite meeting him the first time was surprising, so he’d see it for himself. “In that old warehouse. No need for secrecy, the man’s just gotten from the war and might attack you if you forcibly take him in.”</p><p>Anthea stopped, raised an eyebrow, then nodded, the underlying question of “<em>This early?” </em>written on her face.</p><p>Mycroft shook his head, and watched her leave the room.</p><p>
  <em>Let’s see if this man is who I think he will be in Sherlock’s life.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Mycroft Holmes, legally known as <em>Alexander Mycroft Holmes, </em>is an individual who would pride himself of being independent.</p><p>He was capable, he was knowledgeable; at age two he was several years ahead of his age group. At age three, he was sent to kindergarten, and was observed to be a highly-intelligent, yet also a boy who knew how to measure his own surroundings, even if he was just in the middle of a classroom, surrounded by children less interesting than the goldfishes swimming in the tank on the side.</p><p>The keen eye, apparently, was trained onto the names on each person’s upper arm—the location of a soulmate’s name. Be it his classmates’ or his elders’, the small, calculating yet quite-amused gaze would follow the direction of one’s shirt, catching the smallest of glimpses of a person’s soul name. It intrigued him, once he had learned what the writing on his body meant, which was different from the patterned ink his neighbor had—tattoos, his father had called him.</p><p>“They were different from tattoos, father.” He had asked, sleeve neatly folded upwards to gesture. “Mine’s a name. I presume that you didn’t actually tattoo this name on me, yes?”</p><p>“Yes, Alex, we didn’t,” his father’s kind and genial eyes had twinkled. “Those are what we call <em>soul names. </em>Your special half, I bet you’ve seen your mother’s?”</p><p>“She has your name,” he had nodded, resolutely and without any doubt, as he had seen his own father’s name sprawled in graceful cursive. “And you have hers?”</p><p>His father had bent down and nodded, removing his jacket and laying it on his lap. The rolled sleeves eventually showed his mother’s name, which Mycroft gently prodded. “Yes, I do. I’m lucky to have her.”</p><p>“That’s good.” Young Mycroft had murmured, thinking that his parents were compatible, <em>not perfect, </em>but quite compatible and capable. He’d seen them work together in the kitchen, making cake and roast. He loved their cupcakes the most, if he had to choose, since it tasted so <em>different </em>from the bakery he went to. <em>Maybe soul mates make cupcakes better, </em>he had thought, once. It seemed like a plausible solution.</p><p>But at age five, he came to realize that while his parents are capable and compatible, they were not the most… practical.</p><p>They had named him with <em>Alexander.</em></p><p>At first, he thought it was magnificent; Alexander, with the prominent definition of “defender of mankind”, and with famous figures belonging to a government. It suited him well; he thought that it would fit him quite well to be someone in the government.</p><p>But Alexander was <em>common.</em></p><p>He didn’t know why his parents would name him so. It drove him to maddening levels of trying to keep his attitude in check and his emotions separated from his thinking. <em>He </em>was aware of being named Alexander, and what that entailed ever since he had asked the question of the existence of soulmates. His schoolmates, thoroughly just regaining their consciousness for the meantime, just discovered what they were, and were <em>enamored.</em></p><p>“Hey, Alex!” Kim, a classmate of his, greeted. “So, I was thinking, maybe we could play later? During our break time?”</p><p>He successfully reigned in a, <em>I could see your soul name, and that’s Alexandra, not Alexander, </em>but he mused that to a normal five-year-old, the distinction was lost. Or maybe they were truly idiots, of which he fears for the world. “I suppose so,” he said instead, and let himself be occupied for the rest of recess, content in watching other people—even Kim—as he ate his sandwich. Performing the skip-and-hop with the ease abnormal for someone as young as him, and he doubted that he’d find his ‘other half’ in Kim.</p><p>She, however, didn’t know that his soulmate’s name was <em>not </em>Kim, nor anywhere even near Kim. And several <em>more </em>classmates of his, as he went up the school levels, advanced or not.</p><p>It was a natural choice to just opt for his second name.</p><hr/><p>“From now on, I’d like to be referred to as Mycroft, Mummy, Daddy,” he spoke in the noblest and most proper tone he could manage, in a suit that his father had brought for him on his fifth birthday. “I think it suits me so much more.”</p><p>“Oh, but Alexander is a much more regal name, is it not?” His mummy wondered, and he once thought again, <em>if it isn’t so common, unfortunately.</em></p><p>“Dear, I think it’s because of the kids.” His father perceptibly said. <em>He must know, </em>Mycroft thought, as his father was named <em>Scott </em>and it wasn’t a unique name at all. “Have they been… unpleasant, with you?”</p><p>“No.” He shook his head, “—just annoying… lesser than goldfishes.”</p><p>“Goldfish?”</p><p>His mouth formed into a displeased moue. “I want to be called Mycroft,” he stomped his foot, because he was still a five-year old and he was a child. “I don’t <em>like </em>being called Alex—or Alexander—and having so many people think I’m their soulmate! It’s boring! It’s annoying. It’s unpleasant!”</p><p>“Alright, alright, Mycroft,” his mother placated, and he breathed in to stop himself from smiling, though his hands fidgeted in glee. “We’ll call you Mycroft. My, my, my little Mycroft, I do think it’s quite befitting to be a politician’s name, does it not?”</p><p>He frowned. “I don’t want to be a politician. Maybe something else. I want something else.”</p><p>“Mycroft,” his father cocked his head to the side. “Since Alexander will be shot down, may I call you Mike?”</p><p>It was simply unacceptable, because <em>Mike </em>was even more common than<em> Alexander </em>or <em>Alex, </em>and that was horrible all-around. The childish glare that crept onto his features brought out a chortle from his parents, of which he tried not to be so <em>irritated </em>about, but at least he wasn’t <em>Alexander </em>anymore. At least now, his only problem would be finding his own soulmate.</p><p>
  <em>John.</em>
</p><p>What a terribly, annoyingly, <em>common </em>name.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2: Maybe There's Something</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His soulmate’s name was John, and it was one of the most agonizing yet fairly discouraging things in life. The concept of a soulmate didn’t appeal to him as much as other romantic people would—he didn’t even believe in such sentiment, being subjected to awful, tactless befriending tactics his peer group (and subsequent older people as he went through higher levels of school)—and frankly, there was nothing that could ever be appealing more than the soul name.</p><p>Then William Sherlock Holmes came into his life, a baby with dark curls unlike his smoothed ginger ones, and surprisingly—</p><p>A blank body.</p><p>Sherlock didn’t have a soulmate.</p><hr/><p>A “blank body” was a body that didn’t have a mark. No <em>soulmate. </em>They were rare, Mycroft knew, even at six years old; he’s done research and was appalled and a little bit jealous since his brother would be on the luckier side.</p><p>No <em>soulmate. </em>No people badgering about who was <em>John this </em>and <em>are you Alex that, </em>or <em>what would you like your soulmate to look like? Mine’s got dreamy eyes.</em></p><p>Infuriating, for a person such as him who just wanted to read his lessons in peace, in the library if he so pleases.</p><p>His brother was lucky because it meant that he didn’t have to <em>choose. </em>He could pick <em>anyone </em>and that would be fine, but he also knew it would go both ways—the other party would ultimately have to give up from partnering with their own soulmate if not. Sherlock was a neutral party, one who didn’t have to worry about expectations and future meetings and deciding if they were the correct <em>John.</em></p><p>At least, that’s what he thought before an eight-year-old Sherlock stumbled into his room, eyes red and tired and <em>crying. </em>Mycroft took one look at him, putting down his book and approaching his obviously distraught younger brother.</p><p>“Sit up,” he murmured, and Sherlock followed, sniffling. Mycroft’s heart clenched—try as he might to leave <em>sentiment, </em>his family was still important to him. “What’s wrong with you?”</p><p>Sherlock swallowed, and his throat was scratchy. “Someone called me a freak.” He confessed, hands shaking over a bee plush toy that their mother had brought for him. That concerned Mycroft; Sherlock never brought out his bee outside his room. “Because I pointed out to them that there was nothing, they could do to put their friends together because they never liked him.”</p><p>“Sherlock…”</p><p>“I just pointed out what I saw! That the name was his name but different, and they didn’t really like them, but they tolerated him because they thought they could be their soulmate!” Sherlock cried, slamming his hands on the bed. “Why must they call me like those?”</p><p><em>Why indeed, </em>he thought, and his thoughts circled to, <em>blasted soul names. </em>That wasn’t his priority as of the moment, however.</p><p>“People are idiots, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock frowned, and sighed. “Why can’t more people be like you, Mycroft?”</p><p><em>More like me? </em>He wondered, and of course, that would be his brother’s thinking. His brother, once he thought that Mycroft went by his second name, felt befitting that he would run by his second name as well—by <em>Sherlock. </em>His parents were very pleased that night, though Mycroft was just mortified since Sherlock had declared it over a school presentation after reciting Sonnet 116.</p><p>
  <em>We are not the same, Sherlock, you care too much, and I care too little.</em>
</p><p>“Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock.” He simply said out loud, not exactly in comfort but rather to ease the younger’s mind. “You must remember that, or you may be presented to the throes of humanity’s most inane and insipid minds.”</p><p>Sherlock became quiet for a second, and tilted his head, squeezing the bee plush toy. “Mycroft, what’s your soulmate’s name?”</p><p>He carefully let himself to go through the question, not betraying the surprise he felt. “Why are you asking?”</p><p>Sherlock looked away. “When they were calling me names… they told me that there was a reason why my wrist… or my arm had no name.” Those grey, shining eyes, glassy with tears shone with fear. “I’ve been thinking about it, all day, ever since mummy got me from school. Do they mean—”, then a breath, “—do they mean that I’m unlovable, Mycroft? That even whoever—whoever puts these—these soulmates’ names on us, thinks I’m unlovable?”</p><p><em>Oh, Sherlock. </em>Mycroft couldn’t dispel the utter vitriol he had for those who had branded these names onto his arm, and to those who left his brother with none. To make his brother think the worst, even if he was a tad bit too pushy but he was just a <em>child </em>as any other children—disheartened him.</p><p>Then, it was just an easy decision.</p><p>“Sherlock, you must not lower yourself to such minds.” He said with the air of indifference, rolling his sleeve—the opposite to where his was located—and tilted his head. “Not all have soulmates, it just means that you are free to do so as you please.”</p><p>He would have to talk about the incident with his parents—push them to make those in the wrong to receive proper correction—but tonight, he realized that his for all of his knowledge, there were certain parameters that he hadn’t realized to take into account.</p><p>That being soulmate-less, for all it’s ‘luck’, could also be an object of discrimination.</p><hr/><p>“I’m not spying him for <em>you, Mycroft, </em>please don’t be surprised if I turn down your offer once more.”</p><p>They were in a similar setting as of now, Mycroft on the end and John at the entrance. It had surprised Mycroft how nonchalant John was, even with their first meeting—the only indication that the man was remotely afraid was when he thought Sherlock was in danger. <em>Attached to the hip already, </em>he had thought, in that abandoned building Anthea arranged for their meeting. Bleak and boring, <em>John Watson </em>was just another John in his and Sherlock’s life.</p><p>Certainly not the first. For Mycroft, this has to be the sixtieth John he’s ever met.</p><p>The honorable discharge, however, was the first time. <em>Leave it to my brother to take in an injured man.</em></p><p>Then again, if he was meeting the man on his own volition for the fourth time, then it was just out of precaution. There was the matter of <em>Moriarty, </em>of course. The actual name could just be a codename, and he doesn’t trust someone like John, who seemed to take his and his brother’s eccentricity and genius with stride.</p><p>Or even looked at him with no fear in the eyes. His <em>parents </em>were the only ones who didn’t look at him with fear. Even Sherlock did, in his younger years.</p><p>“Greetings to you as well, Doctor Watson.” He said instead, aware of the other man’s impression of him. “I know that you are quite loyal to my brother already, though I believe it is more of the situational loyalty than the actual <em>friendship </em>territory, is it not?”</p><p>“None of your concern.” The doctor flatly returned, unamused. “Cut to chase, will you? I believe you know that you actually pulled me away from my grocery shopping, and trust me,” the man breathed out a scoff, “—your brother does not have the wherewithal to know when he should be eating.”</p><p>“Yes, he’s always been like that,” Mycroft nodded, remembering his <em>danger nights</em>. In the olden days, they were <em>danger months.</em> “If it’s your groceries you’re so invested in that you’d like to leave this meeting, I can tell Anthea to order someone to do so for you. I’m not quite incapable, Doctor Watson.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow at the black limousine that had drove him to the location, and the said location, which was a secluded café near the Thames River. “No, no, I don’t think I ever doubted you for a second that you could somehow arrange the whole flat in a night without Sherlock and I knowing.”</p><p>“It would require Sherlock being incapacitated first, however, which the last time I ever seen that was when he was hit on the face by someone with a deadly swing.”</p><p>John quirked a smile, and Mycroft mused how it was telling that the man <em>smiled </em>rather than fussed over the punch. A man of action and danger, this man was; he was beginning to see the light of interest that Sherlock probably tried to follow and investigate. Combined with the actual disinterest in taking any money, John Watson was definitely shaping up to be somewhat dependable.</p><p>“I see that you saved my brother once again from his deadly pursuit of being taken down in the most idiotic of ways.”</p><p>The ex-soldier narrowed his eyes, then backed onto his soldier, then assessed him carefully; not quite the Sherlockian gaze, or Mycroftian, as his parents would name, but the man certainly did try to see something in him. After a few seconds—far longer than he liked, he raised his hand to call the waiter, while John promptly rattled his own.</p><p>“You’ve got a peculiar way of showing your care, Mycroft.” John mused, and was so out of the blue that Mycroft’s hand actually stilled. There was a second of doubt, of thinking <em>and how can you say so,</em> but John didn’t seem to notice. While Mycroft was able to compose himself, John received the orders they had with a smile.</p><p>Mycroft looked at his own cake before giving the other man a leveled look. “Will you not berate me for eating such?”</p><p>John tracked down the cake, then to his own risotto, and smirked. “Not really. You don’t need to share me the details, Mycroft, but the sweating doesn’t become you, doesn’t help the ‘I can take down governments with a single glance’ stance you try to cultivate.” He took a napkin and handed it to him, and Mycroft stared at it for a moment before taking it.</p><p><em>How? </em>“I take it that my brother has been waxing garbage about what I actually do.” He patted the beads of sweat that formed on his forehead.</p><p>“In his words, ‘practically the British Government’.” John’s lips curled into a knowing smile, then tilted his head. “Hypoglycemia, for your unspoken question. GP, if you remember. The ‘doctor’ to my name isn’t just a decoration.”</p><p>He blinked, and shook his head. “Ah. Yes. Do forgive me.”</p><p>As the both of them turned towards their food, John nonchalantly broke the awkward silence with a wave of his fork. “You might want to ask your men to buy you groceries, Mycroft. The Queen and nation know they have to eat to supplement their mental faculties.”</p><p>To his surprise, felt an unbidden smile show on his lips, and laughed softly. “Ah. Yes. Well. I suppose so.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tell me what y'all think, because this is going to be such a wacky fic lmao</p></blockquote></div></div>
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